I wake in the middle of the night and this is my favorite time. The heater groans in still air and the traffic has ceased on the highway near my home. I read once that good writers and good theologians woke themselves in the night hours to pray and read, or write, and I know I fool myself that I am or could be both, but I still wake to pray, to read, to write. It's the disciplines of a godly life that fail me most. Because I am a recovering legalist perhaps? Or because the vestiges of licentiousness still breed in my soul with an alarming rate, I don't know. I do not discipline my body, nor make it my slave, so I am not pray-er, reader, or writer, if the truth is told.
I am only a pilgrim, a wayfarer, a sojourner, and my weaknesses, oh, they show in inopportune places and inopportune ways.
David is my comfort, that murderer, that adulterer. He bests my worst sins and still puts me to shame with his heart after God. Is Christ my water? My bread? My food? No? Seek on.
If redemption is the whole story of God, and I might argue it is, doesn't it make sense that we the redeemed need to be redeemed? And what is worth redeeming but that which has no worth? Green stamps and soda cans, cardboard lottery tickets and oh my soul. Worthless all, but if attributed worth by Someone, that is the whole story of God.
This morning I ache when my eyes open naturally in the dark and I roll over, turn the light on. Who will rescue me from this body of death? Will hard work? Determination? Discipline? Prayer?
Who is a Person and that Person is Christ alone. He is my bread. He is my water. My food. My redeemer and my help.